Christmas at the Cat Cafe

‘Milk?’ she enquired. David gave a single nod. ‘Sugar?’

‘Two, please,’ he answered gruffly.

‘Help yourself to a cookie,’ she said, nudging the plate towards him.

David grunted, glaring angrily at the biscuits as if they, too, were wasting his time. Although Debbie was doing her best to hide it, I could tell that, underneath her friendly demeanour, she was being made nervous by David’s frostiness.

‘I was so sorry to hear about Margery,’ Debbie began, as she stirred her tea. ‘She was such a lovely lady.’

At this, David breathed in sharply. ‘Yes, well, it was probably for the best. She’d had a good innings,’ he said matter-of-factly.

Debbie’s eyebrows began to creep up her face, but she said nothing.

‘This shouldn’t take long,’ David said, placing the tips of his fingers on the cardboard folder on his place mat.

Debbie, still stirring her tea, glanced across. ‘Oh, right,’ she replied uncertainly.

‘This is for you,’ David said brusquely, attempting to push the folder across the candy-striped cloth towards Debbie. But the little table was so cluttered with crockery that the folder kept getting caught, dislodging sachets of sweetener from their bowl and almost knocking over the tiny vase of flowers. He tutted and picked the folder up, holding it above the tea cups.

With a look of polite courteousness, Debbie took the folder. David watched with a clenched jaw as she fished her reading glasses out of her apron pocket, removed them from their case and pushed them onto her nose. She opened the folder and began to read.

‘Um, sorry, David – what is this?’ she said lightly.

She looked up to find that David had hunched forward in his chair and was proffering a pen towards her. He had removed the lid and, as he twisted the pen, its brass nib glinted in the firelight. Debbie’s questioning gaze took in the pen and David’s posture of thinly veiled belligerence.

‘What is this, David?’ Debbie repeated in a small voice.

‘It’s a letter of renunciation, from you, saying that you renounce any claim to my mother’s estate.’ David’s voice was calm but uncompromising. ‘I would be grateful if you could sign it now,’ he added, as if Debbie might not have understood the implication of the pen thrust in her face.

Debbie opened her mouth, then closed it again. ‘Er, but, I haven’t even read it yet,’ she protested feebly.

David sneered and sat back in his chair, making a show of giving her time to read. He twiddled the pen between his fingers, while Debbie, now visibly flustered, scanned the letter.

‘So, it’s a letter from me, but written by you?’ she clarified, concentrating hard on the sheet of paper in front of her. David nodded. Debbie cleared her throat slightly. ‘I, Deborah Walsh, hereby renounce any claim on the estate of Margery Hinckley,’ she read.

‘That’s right,’ David answered flatly, a muscle twitching at the corner of his mouth.

‘But I never made any claim on Margery’s estate, David,’ Debbie said, mild indignation beginning to creep into her voice. ‘And besides, I’m not the beneficiary – Molly is.’

At this, David let out a single bark-like laugh that was so sharp it made me jump. ‘Well, in that case, maybe I should ask Molly to sign the letter?’ His face split into a mean smile, revealing his yellow, uneven teeth. He turned to look at me, tilting his head sideways in a parody of courteousness. ‘Molly, could you come over here and sign this letter, please?’ he asked sarcastically.

I glared at him, unblinking, feeling a wave of fury course through me.

‘No? Thought not.’ He grinned maliciously, and his eyes flickered back to Debbie, who had begun to blush. I felt the heat rising in my cheeks, too.

David waved his hand at the letter dismissively. ‘It doesn’t matter who wrote it – we just need something in writing, to get the ball rolling. The solicitors can take it from there and get a contract of renunciation drawn up.’ His tone was business like once more, and he leant forward again with his pen.

Debbie looked down at the page in front of her. ‘But, David, this isn’t a letter from me. These aren’t my words—’ she began.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ David cut in. ‘You just. Need. To sign. That’s all.’

I felt my hackles rise at his aggressive tone. My heart was pounding and I could feel the blood pumping around my body; I had not felt so under threat since I had encountered the yellow-eyed alley-cat during my search for Eddie.

Debbie removed her glasses and placed them on the table. ‘It matters to me, David,’ she said quietly. ‘As I told you on the phone, I plan to write to the solicitor and explain why I must decline your mother’s legacy to Molly, but I intend to do it in my own words.’ She glanced at the hovering pen nib. ‘And I intend to sign it with my own pen,’ she added as an afterthought. She flipped the cardboard folder shut and held it across the table. ‘I’m sorry, David, but I won’t be signing your letter,’ she said firmly.